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Books could be an incredible adventure. I stayed under my blanket and barely moved, and no one would have guessed how my mind raced and my heart soared with stories.

Paula McLain

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Paula McLain
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 7
Author
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Fresno
California
Would
Incredible
Adventure
Moved
Soared
Books
Raced
Stories
Guessed
Book
Blanket
Heart
Barely
Mind
Stayed

More quotes by Paula McLain

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This was my one brush with love. Was it love? It felt awful enough. I spent another two years crawling around in the skin of it, smoking too much and growing too thin and having stray thoughts of jumping from my balcony like a tortured heroine in a Russian novel.
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I would gladly have climbed out of my skin and into his that night, because I believed that was what love meant.
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You have to digest life. You have to chew it up and love it all through.
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I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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I'd had my share of rain. My mother's illness ... had weighed on me, but the years before had been heavy, too. I was only twenty eight.
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But when Bumby nursed, his fist clutching the fabric of my robe, his eyes soft and bottomless and locked on mine, as if I were the very heart of his universe, I couldn't help but melt into him.
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I knew that I could hate him all I wanted for the way he was hurting me, but I couldn’t ever stop loving him, absolutely, for what he was.
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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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To marry was to say you believed in the future and in the past, too-that history and tradition and hope could stay knit together to hold you up.
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All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.
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She was also incredibly confident, with a way of moving and talking that communicated that she didn't need anyone to tell her she was beautiful or worthwhile.
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... and yet he could also be very charming, in a bookish, infinitely apologetic way.
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More and more I find myself at a loss for words and didn't want to hear other people talking either. Their conversations seemed false and empty. I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.
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But love is love. It makes you do terribly stupid things.
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Happiness is so awfully complicated, but freedom isn't. You're either tied down or you're not.
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Maybe happiness was an hourglass already running out, the grains tipping, sifting past each other. Maybe it was a state of mind.
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And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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It was our favorite part of the day, this in-between time, and it always seemed to last longer than it should--a magic and lavender space unpinned from the hours around it, between worlds.
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My life was my life I would have to stare it down, somehow, and make it work for me.
Paula McLain